"Time is like a river made up of the events which happen, and a violent stream; for as soon as a thing has been seen, it is carried away, and another comes in its place, and this will be carried away too."
~ Marcus Aurelius
What if I run out of time?
It's a question that has echoed in my mind for decades and a theme that emerges in my writing repeatedly. What’s even more curious to me is that I’m retired now and have far more unscheduled time than in the past, but despite this, I’m as busy as ever. It’s a marvel that I managed to get so much done in the past when I was working full-time!
Between endless to-do lists and responsibilities that span from the mundane to the meaningful, it often feels like I’m falling behind. There’s always something that’s pending or left undone. And of course, I also have big aspirations. There are many things I still want to do – books to read, a trilogy to write, and so many places in the world to see!
It feels like I’m running out of time – like I’m being carried downstream in a fast-moving river. I find myself emotionally gasping for air and looking for something to hold onto. Intuitively, I sense that it’s not much further to the sea where I will finally pour myself out into something vast and sacred. While there is an abiding acceptance of this truth, I also find myself longing to swim back upstream or at least to slow the swirling currents of time.
Grief has also changed my perception of time. The past few years has been a period of loss for me and I’ve felt a heightened sense of the brevity of this lifetime. The river that once felt steady, even slow at times, now rushes past like a torrent. More than ever, I’m aware, that my life will run its course before I’ve done enough—before I’ve been enough.
And then…one warm summer evening in Portugal…
There was magic in the air. My body softened like the edges of the candles that burned throughout the yoga shala. Nailah wove a tapestry of music with her harp and her voice. I felt something eternal stir within me. A deep remembering carried me into the starry night and a realization washed through me…
There has never been enough time.
That’s the point.
I laughed.
I wept.
I breathed.
I felt.
Alive.
From the moment I was born, there was never going to be enough time. Brevity had always been part of the equation. I was a flash of light in a cascade of stars – a momentary sparkle.
I thought back to my childhood when the days stretched long and unhurried. Then, the river picked up speed as the years passed. Rocks, bends, and obstacles made the water rough and choppy. By the time I was in my thirties, the current moved faster, carrying with it all of my hopes, my dreams, and my endless to-do lists. It was overwhelming—chaotic even—trying to keep my head above water and simultaneously trying to teach my daughters to swim. I didn’t drown, but I also had to let go of a few things as time swept me along. I threw my need for perfection to the shore. I put some of my aspirations in a tiny leaf-boat and let them float downstream in hopes of finding them later. I learned that mindfulness and presence helped me find slower moving streams and temporary pools of stillness.
Yet… I still can’t make the river pause or flow backward and fighting the current only leaves me exhausted. I remembered that there’s beauty in the unstoppable flow of time when I quit trying to control it. There’s beauty in the fact that I will never have enough time to do it all and that I’ll probably die with hundreds of things still on my to-do lists. There is courage in the fact that I keep adding to the lists anyway.
These reflections didn’t fill me with despair. Instead, they brought relief and even a bit of humor. I’m not supposed to accomplish everything. No one is. Life is brief by design, always fast-moving, and there will never be enough time to learn everything, do everything, or become everything I dream of. But that’s what makes it all so incredibly fun and challenging and beautiful.
For now, I try to wade into each day with acceptance, letting the river carry me while focusing on the moments and priorities that are within my reach. I can’t stop the current, but I can choose where to stand—sometimes in the deeper, faster waters of my aspirations, other times closer to the shore, where the flow is gentler, where I can pause and just be.
In the end, the river will take me where it’s meant to. There may be unfinished projects, dreams left unrealized, and goals that I never quite reach. But I don’t think that’s what matters most. What matters is the way I’ve lived while being carried by the river—the beauty I’ve noticed along the way, the love I’ve shared, the moments I’ve truly been present for. That’s how I want to live—aware that while there will never be enough time to do it all, but that there is always enough time to feel this life wash over me and through me, for as far as this river carries me.
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